


Room of Angel

by Frostfyre



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, everyone you can think of - Freeform, the gang's all here y'all this is just
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-04 01:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15830604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfyre/pseuds/Frostfyre
Summary: Theirs is the inheritance of dust, be it borne on Heaven's high winds or smoldering on the shoreline of the Lake of Fire. They are none of them more than animate ash.A mixture of drabbles, varying in length and subject (and canonicity), but all taking place in the verdant hellscape that is Creation. Accepting suggestions.Latest: Simper, Heart, Puppy.





	Room of Angel

**Simper**

"Mistress."

Shoulders rounded, hands empty, eyes cast to the floor - these are the ingredients of a Horseman's downfall. Her words are candy floss in the air, soft, ephemeral, and her voice drips with the honey saccharine of submission, and watch how  _easily_  the Horseman warms, look how with praise and simpering she has infiltrated this jagged shell which suffering would only have hardened. Witness her  _accomplishment._

The Black Rider strides with the confidence of the unwary (the  _unwatched_ ), sparing not a thought to the shadow at her side and in her soul, and this - this is the victory of sycophancy.

 

**Heart**

It is not that her chest is empty, gallery clear of those broken skeleton creatures gathering dust in the corners, still stained by betrayal and reeking of Eden - it is not that she  _doesn't_  hold nestled in places of honor three pedestals, perhaps nicked and scratched by the years but still standing, still strong - it is not that she is  _unstirred_  by these chains rattling with the Council's condemnation, and though one pedestal has cracked like a faultline, it is still  _standing._

But brother dearest, try to under _stand -_

She was never the one to wear her heart on a sleeve.

 

**Puppy**

It growls at you, corrupted saliva dripping from its fangs as it pads around you, its claws clicking against the stone floor. Its bulbous shoulder ripple as it tenses before pouncing at you, snarling in crazed bloodloust, its claws poised to sink into your flesh.

It's with a quick, smooth arc of Chaoseater's blade that you cut the minion in half, demon blood spraying everywhere. You can hear more, though - there's always, _always_  more - baying far away. _The blood_ , you think, _they can smell the blood_.

You turn towards the hounds, and ready yourself for round two.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series I worked on a lot back when I was like... fourteen? fifteen? I left it behind for a solid six years, but with Darksiders III looming ahead, I'm feeling the hype in this house, even if I'm still holding onto a few reservations due to Fury's boobplate and her desire to lead the Horsemen.
> 
> Puppy is an old drabble, but I'm still fond enough of it to place it here; other old work which I still like might also end up in this collection, but I primarily wish to focus on fresh new content as I try to practice the good habit of writing everyday.
> 
> Comments and kudos would be appreciated, and I was serious about the suggestions! Words and prompts are the water of the desert for writers.


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